The Joshua Files - a complete box set: Books 1-5 of the young adult sci-fi adventure series plus techno-thriller prequel

by M. G. Harris

  He makes it sound sensible, but there’s no hiding the fact that within one month I seem to have lost my dad, my mum and my home. I feel pretty rubbish. When it came down to it, I wasn’t up to defending what was mine.

  “It’s just temporary, Josh,” says Jackie, laying a friendly hand on my shoulder. I just nod wordlessly. My eyes sting from tears I badly need to hold back.

  I don’t believe for a second that it’s “kids”. I think back to Montoyo’s warning to Dad about the Ix Codex. Those who have sought it have so far disappeared without a trace.

  Yet my dad was murdered, with evidence and everything. Whoever these people are, they’re getting sloppy. They’re beginning to make mistakes.

  Probably because I’m dazed from the punches and my ice-cold bruise, it isn’t until much later, as I’m about to leave for Jackie’s, that I think to check Dad’s study. Is there anything missing other than the computers? I notice a couple of books on the floor, swept off the shelves. By accident? I kneel down to take a look.

  The books are some standard textbooks of Mayan archaeology. I pick them up, replace them on the shelf. There’s a gap. I scan the titles of the remaining books.

  One is missing.

  Even before I really think about it, I know which one it will be. Because only one book really matters.

  One of the John Lloyd Stephens books – Volume II of the two-book set: Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan.

  There’s a whole story behind those books, one I’ve never heard all the way through. But the story is magical to us – the books that brought Mum and Dad together, the books that Dad read as a young boy fascinated with travel, discovery and adventure. The books that first gave him the archaeology bug; the dream of discovering a lost city of the Maya, just like his hero the American traveller John Lloyd Stephens, the first “white man” to see some of the Mayan ruins as they lay undisturbed for centuries, gobbled up by the jungle.

  Well, Volume II is gone. I take a thorough look just in case, but I know, with a sinking feeling in my guts, that the burglar has nicked it. Why? It feels like spite, but I know it can’t really be that. Maybe Dad left a note in there? I slump down into his chair, trying to think.

  I can’t face telling Mum that her book is gone – not on top of everything else. It isn’t just a valuable first edition of Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan – it was her first present from my dad, inscribed with the very first romantic note he’d ever written her.

  All I can think of is how I can find some way to replace it. Somehow it has to be possible.

  Jackie isn’t all that surprised when the first thing I do round at hers is to get straight on to the Internet. I get on to some second-hand book websites and hunt around for any bookshop that has a copy of that book. There are four or five in Oxfordshire, as it turns out. And one even has a first edition.

  I almost laugh when I see the address. It’s right here in Oxford – a shop in Jericho.

  The next day, after school, I take the bus straight there. Tyler calls me on my mobile phone as I’m riding over Magdalen Bridge.

  “I got your text about last night. Mate . . . what are you like?”

  “Didn’t arrange the burglary myself, you know,”

  Why does everyone act like it’s somehow my fault?

  “Yeah, mate, I’m only messing. It’s just . . . what’s going on with your life, hey?”

  “Well . . . there’s some stuff I haven’t told you about,” I tell him.

  “Like?”

  “Stuff about why my dad was murdered. Stuff to do with his work.”

  “He’s a university lecturer, innit? Who’d kill a teacher?”

  “He’s an archaeologist,” I say, sighing. “And it’s . . . oh . . . complicated.”

  “What you doing now?”

  “I’m going to Jericho, actually. Looking for a book. Not far from where you live.”

  “Can I come with?”

  I meet up with Tyler outside the Phoenix Cinema. The bookshop is close by. I go straight to the owner, tell him I’m the one who sent the message through his website. He’s put the book aside and fetches it from behind the counter.

  It’s in good condition, but not mint – not as good as Mum’s copy. There’s a chance that Mum wouldn’t notice if the book was just spine-out on the shelf. I take it to the corner of the shop and inspect it. Tyler peers over my shoulder.

  “Any good?”

  I tuck a finger into the flyleaf, check the inside. That’s when I see this inscription:

  My dearest Arcadio,

  Meeting you has been an inspiration. I trust you’ll recognize yourself in this book. Many thanks for fascinating times at Chechan Naab and Tikal. JLS, 1843.

  JLS?

  It couldn’t be . . . John Lloyd Stephens himself? And mentioning Chechan Naab – a place that I can’t find any mention of in books about Mayan cities? The date sounds right to be Stephens, but I can’t tell anything apart from that.

  I show the bookshop owner. Did he know about the inscription?

  Smugly he replies, “Yes, it’s a hoax, obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, John Lloyd Stephens didn’t know about Tikal. In fact, he describes its location without realizing what he’s written. He describes it in this book as a legendary city of the Maya where the Maya are still living – ‘a living city’.”

  “A place where the Maya were still living? In the nineteenth century?” I ask, puzzled.

  “So rumour had it. Course, Tikal was discovered a few years later. Abandoned, like every other Mayan city. Stephens was propagating a local myth, nothing more.”

  “So. . .?”

  “Well,” the owner says, a bit condescendingly, “he’d hardly write an inscription about Tikal, a city he didn’t even know existed, now would he?”

  “And what about Chechan Naab?”

  “Now that’s the other problem,” he says. “There’s no such place.”

  The bookshop owner is convinced. Turns out that he’s looked into the whole thing. My guess is that he’d secretly hoped it was signed by Stephens. It would have made the book worth a big chunk of money. But he’s happy to sell it for “only” £200.

  “Two hundred pounds?” I say, shocked. “You didn’t put that on the website!”

  “I’ll take your best offer in the vicinity,” he says.

  My “vicinity” isn’t even close. I give Tyler a nod and we step outside on to the pavement.

  “I can’t get two hundred pounds,” I tell him in a low voice. “Not unless . . . unless I nick my mum’s cashcard.”

  “Do you know the PIN?”

  “I sort of . . . do.”

  Tyler shrugs. “It’s for your mum, isn’t it?” he says. “Hardly Grand Theft Auto.”

  As we’re standing there, a studenty guy in a hoody pushes past us on his way into the shop. I’m about to say something but Tyler distracts me. He’s right – it’s only a loan. Mum would want the book.

  I’m looking over Tyler’s shoulder when I notice the hoody guy getting all chatty with the owner. Soon enough they’re standing at the cash desk, then a book and money are changing hands.

  The owner keeps looking over at me. With a funny look in his eyes, sort of embarrassed.

  The hoody guy didn’t have much time to find a book. A horrible thought strikes me. I take a harder look at the student, realize that there’s something familiar about him. I didn’t see his eyes, only his mouth and jaw.

  It’s when he comes out of the shop, walks towards us, that I catch a proper look. He’s trying to avoid my gaze. I look at the paper bag in his hand.

  And that’s when I remember where I’ve seen him before. Those green eyes – unmistakable.

  “Get him!” I shout to Tyler, as the guy breaks into a sprint behind us.

  “Wha. . .?”

  I’m already turning and pelting after the bloke. “He’s the burglar,” I yell. “And he’s just bought the b
ook!”

  I get a flying start but Tyler catches up with me in a few seconds.

  The burglar is fast. He’s up the street and past the cinema by the time we’re even really moving. Before the corner shop he turns left. We’re there two seconds later and make the same turn, heading through a gateway and under a brick archway into St Sepulchre’s Cemetery. The burglar dashes past the yew trees, vaults a couple of broken gravestones and we do the same.

  The whole cemetery is surrounded by a massive building site. There are plasterboard facings all the way around. He runs the whole length, trying to find a way through.

  We’re almost on him when he finds a gap and dives through.

  Tyler squeezes through first, then me. On the other side, we’re just in time to see the burglar scooting up the road into the backstreets of Jericho.

  We chase him, chests all puffed out, follow him into a little square where there’s a bridge over the canal. He’s on the bridge, giving us one final look at he crosses.

  We’re on the bridge less than two seconds later. But he’s already nowhere to be seen.

  On the opposite bank is another stream of the canal. It’s parked with houseboats, bumper to bumper. There are a couple of guys fishing. They ignore us.

  I stop, bend down, trying to grab my breath. Between gasps, I manage to ask, “Did you see a bloke in a hoody? Carrying a paper bag?”

  The fishermen look at me in silence. One of them shakes his head.

  “Nah.”

  “You must have!”

  “Din’t see nuthin’.”

  Tyler and I exchange a grimace. Our stares fall on the long row of brightly painted houseboats. The guy who robbed my house and swiped that first edition of John Lloyd Stephens, he’s in one of them. I know it. But which?

  I grab a handful of long grass in my fist, tear it off and scatter the shreds in frustration. Tyler watches in sympathy. The one thing I tried to do to help, and I couldn’t even pull that off.

  How can there be any doubt now? That burglar was looking for clues about the Ix Codex.

  Whoever these codex hunters are, they have long arms. I might be thousands of miles away from Mexico, but suddenly I don’t feel safe.

  BLOG ENTRY: LEAF STORM

  Well, the police are no help. I told them all about the burglar being in one of the Jericho houseboats. They just told me they’ll “add it to their list of potential locations”. I don’t get it. OK, burglary isn’t a big deal when they’ve taken nothing massively valuable – but burglary after a murder? But no. No connection, that’s what they believe.

  Jackie’s a nice lady. She takes good care of me. But she hasn’t got broadband Internet access. It was one thing to find a second-hand book, but for the full-on Mayan investigation, I really need that. So I’ve ended up at the library after all. Ha ha, TopShopPrincess. You can come by if you fancy. Or not. Whatever.

  Mum asked me to come and spend the night in her hospital room, which has a little extra bed. I was a bit nervous but it seems pretty cool. The doctors don’t wear white coats. You can’t tell who’s sick and who isn’t.

  I didn’t tell her about the burglary, of course. I didn’t tell her that I tried – and failed – to replace one of the few possessions she might really care about.

  There was a full moon. Its light filled the room with a soft glow. I woke up to find Mum awake, standing by the window.

  I said, “Please, Mum, please get better. What am I supposed to do if you fall apart?”

  She only shook her head. “You don’t know how this feels, Josh. I hope you never do. It’s all gone for me – vanished, like mist.”

  “They’re wrong about Dad,” I told her. I wanted to tell her about the emails I’ve found, but I couldn’t – not until there’s a bit more to go on. “I’m going to prove it. You wait and see.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I turned on to my stomach and slept. I’ve noticed that my dreams are more vivid when I sleep on my front. But last night’s dream was really weird – one of those where you could actually believe you’re there.

  In the dream, I’m dizzy, floundering, caught in the middle of a leaf storm. The leaves surround and enclose me. I close my eyes. In the heart of that storm, I’m suddenly calm. When I open my eyes again, the leaves are gone. I’m standing in a small room with a thatched roof. There are candles everywhere, and the smell of autumn smoke mixed with something acrid, like linseed oil. My eyes sting a little and I blink hard. The room is filled with smoke. There’s a man lying on the straw-covered floor. I don’t recognize him – in fact, I have no clue who he could be. He’s oldish – late forties, maybe, grey hair. And he’s coughing, choking, shaking. His eyes almost pop out of his head. He turns purple. This guy is in bad shape, no doubt about it. I don’t move, though; I don’t help. I just look on and I feel nothing, not a shred of pity. It feels like the incense is making me dizzy. Looks like the guy on the floor is breathing his last. In fact – I’m sure of it. I don’t take a closer look, but I light a candle I’m holding. I hear myself mumble a string of strange words. I could swear he’s done for. But then, without warning, his eyes snap open. And he looks me dead in the eye and says something that sounds like “Summon the Bakabix”.

  The rest of the dream was just flashes; a small statue of a Buddha-like figure, water lapping around a decrepit old boat, a pier with two matching straw huts, a mist hanging low over water.

  Ideas, anyone?

  Comment (1) from TopShopPrincess

  Well, I could try out some of my A-level psychology.

  Maybe the dying man symbolizes a father figure. He’s choking – didn’t you say your dad was strangled? Could you be imagining your dad’s death? What about the “Eastern” references – incense, a Buddha-like statue, the straw huts on water?

  Reply

  I hadn’t thought that those symbols could be “Eastern”. I’ve never been to the Far East, though. As for the rest of it, I don’t know. Guess you could be right.

  Comment (2) from TopShopPrincess

  If a person who’s actually died appears in one of your dreams, it can be a way of telling you to move on with your life. I think your mum really needs you now, Josh. Concentrate on supporting her. Time to stop thinking about your dad. Hasn’t he already hurt you both enough?

  When I see TopShopPrincess’s comment the next day, I’m so mad that I type a quick, angry reply. I call her all the names under the sun. Who is she to judge my dad? If I don’t know what to believe, then how dare she assume?

  But in the end, what’s the point? She’s just some stranger. What do I know about her, really? She’s taking a psychology A level, she lives in Oxford and as far as UFOs go, she’s a believer. She could be a wacko, for all I know. Far as I’m concerned, you give friends a second chance, but someone who’d write a thoughtless comment like that?

  It’s up to me how I deal with the death of my dad, and the problems with my mum. I don’t like TopShopPrincess’s tone. Typical, patronizing older girl. What’s she doing reading my blog anyway?

  But there’s another, much scarier idea that’s occurred to me – a reason why I need to close down that blog.

  Since the burglary, I’ve been worried about the fact that whoever took the computers may have read the emails between my dad and Montoyo and that other guy, whose name I can’t remember, from the Peabody Museum.

  Of course, that’s not all they could have read. If they tracked back in my browser history, they might see the Web address of my blog. And then they’ll know . . . way too much!

  So I move the blog to another server, put a password on it. Now it will be for My Eyes Only. And I delete the old blog.

  Adios, TopShopPrincess. You can keep your comments to yourself.

  But at least she was someone to talk to about this. I don’t want to carry it all alone, and no way am I telling anyone at school.

  So I decide to tell Mum about the emails.

  It won’t be easy to get through to Mum while she’s all v
ague from those tablets, but I have to try. I take the bus to the hospital. As I pass the trees on Headington Hill, I’m jolted by the ferocious lime-green quality of their colour – practically fluorescent.

  Come on, Mum, get better fast. You’re missing the best part of summer.

  In Mum’s room, I take her hand in mine.

  “I found something out,” I begin.

  Mum groans, rubs her forehead. “It’s always something with you. Can’t you just comfort me? God knows I tried it with you.”

  “Dad wasn’t killed by a jealous husband,” I tell her. I watch for her reaction. There’s definitely interest. “He was looking for a valuable Mayan codex. Something to do with the Mayan prophecy about the end of the world in 2012. This Carlos Montoyo guy sent him a warning by email. He told Dad not to even mention the name of the codex in an email! But Dad did email at least one other guy. And we don’t know who else he talked to. I think he’s been killed for that codex. I reckon that ‘jealous husband’ has been framed.”

  I’m not sure how much Mum hears after my first sentence. She’s quiet for a few seconds, mulling it over.

  “I’m sorry, Josh. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that he was in some kind of danger.”

  Mum looks confused. “What’s this got to do with . . . anything?”

  “Well, maybe he wasn’t killed by that woman’s husband.”

  “Not killed by the husband?” she echoes.

  I sigh. I’m not really getting through.

  “Look, Mum – don’t you think it’s all a bit convenient that this has been wrapped up so quickly?”

  “Another one of your conspiracy theories?” she says with a thin smile.

  “Dad’s been murdered,” I continue, “so now they need a suspect. And quick, or else . . . I dunno, maybe the British police are going to come over and look into things as well. So they listen to some rumours, some local gossip, and throw together a case against a local guy. Slam him into jail, charge him. Open and shut, everybody’s happy.”